Sketchy Reflections
by Vara
Summary: Returning a mislaid book Snape makes one final attempt to have a lasting impact.


Authoress's note: Don't own the characters, devices or inventions which are the original works of JK Rowling, or anyone else I might have referenced. Do own my own things and ideas.

Dedicating this to May...who is going by another name on this site--if you want me to reference that name instead just write me ok?

May is the one who got me to pull this old story out of the dusty little tattered folder where it was doing the electronic equivalent of yellowing with age and fading from neglect. I went back over it again, spiffed it up a very little bit. It's not exactly -very- not-canon...but I wrote this before book six came out so it isn't exactly canon either.

* * *

Dark eyes taking in every quill stroke Professor Snape sat at his desk after the last of the day's classes looking through the pages of a sketchbook. The people, places and events recorded within it were not accurate to life. The drawings instead captured the essence of Professor Flitwick as he attempted to not smile at some poor student's out of control feather, or the excitement of the first Hogsmead trip for the new batch of Third Years. Turning the pages slowly he saw a rendering of Harry Potter smiling as he held up yet another game winning Snitch and the artist had not shied away from showing that The-Boy-Who-Lived was feeling justifiably triumphant. That had surprised him. The first few times he had seen such honesty within the mislaid book he hadn't been certain of what he was looking at. As he had continued he'd begun to anticipate, in a way, the next record of unfiltered and untainted emotion. The young man had talent. 

There was a light tap on the classroom door. He turned another page, taking the time to look at another drawing. He was the Head of Slytherin House, such disregard for whoever might be waiting out in the cool, dark hall was expected of him. He knew, though, who it was; he'd summoned the young man. Calling out permission for the youth to enter he closed the book and placed it on top of the large bare desk which faced off alone against a classroom of smaller student desks.

"Professor Snape," Draco's eyes avoided the black bound note style book which was between them. "You wished to see me, Sir..."

His expression did not change to convey his approval of the other's self-control. That didn't mean he did not feel it though. Draco Malfoy had learned, better than most, how to play the subtle games which gave Slytherin House its reputation. The boy hadn't asked why the summons had been issued or what it was about, there had been nothing given away by acknowledging only the fact of his summons and even then the young man had managed to make it sound as if he'd 'requested' this meeting rather than commanding it.

"It seems you have a choice before you." He began and was rewarded for his preparations by the faintest of surprise in the other's pale eyes. "You are to graduate soon and have very little time left within which to make your choice, Mister Malfoy. I strongly urge you to consider your options carefully before deciding."

"Sir?"

He had rattled the boy. "Very shortly, Mister Malfoy, you will have to take some sort of definite action; killing one man or the other. The choice is up to you, of course. I cannot even advise you, really, as to which is the proper course of action. All I can do is this." With the fingertips of one hand he slid the slender black book across his desk. "One man must die. Either the man you could become, or the man your mother wishes you to be."

Stillness reigned for a moment, then Draco took up his book. He gave the boy a single nod to confirm that their meeting had ended and then the pale haired heir to the Malfoy estate turned and walked out. He knew he might not live to see the reality of the boy's choice. Things were getting more precarious with each day. It seemed that a second war was unavoidable, whether open or covert. Later. After the blood and burials. After the eulogies and flowers. The world would need something disturbingly honest and unashamedly true if it were going to stand a chance of learning from the mistakes which had brought about this new conflict.

Irony at its most macabre held him in place. Whatever influence he still had with Draco Malfoy had been used. In those sketches he'd seen the potential for a Slytherin to expose lies of false altruism and fraudulent honour. He had seen true emotions, intentions hopes and dreams held and cherished by everyone Draco had more than passing contact with. Everyone, but himself.

"Nox," he whispered. The torches which lit the classroom flickered, dimmed and extinguished themselves.

If he were dead already or if there was still some shred of himself left, too small and well camouflaged for the keen-eyed artist to see, it wouldn't matter for long.


End file.
